War of the Hounds
by mcdorfman
Summary: Fate works in mysterious ways as a mage on the run, an elven murderess, and a noblewoman on a bloody quest for vengeance see their destinies intertwine, while Ferelden prepares itself to fight under the banners of civil war. AU fic in that the Fifth Blight never happened. Featuring Fem!Cousland, Fem!Tabris, and Man!Amell. Rated M for Violence, Language, and Sex. M/F.
1. According to Plan

_Author's Note: I've been wanting to do another Dragon Age fanfic for quite some time. Actually, I've wanted to work on The Wreath of Highever, but alas, my muse is being uncooporative as usual when it comes to that story. So I thought that this might work better. This is an AU fic where there is no Fifth Blight, just like WOH. There'll probably be some other similarities between the two, but where with WOH I more or less engineered situations to introduce the original party members (including events which probably didn't make much sense and thus a little less believable), I have decided to not use the party members (save for some cameos here and there), and instead use three Wardens from the origins, namely the Human Noble, Human Mage, and City Elf as my party (plus the Dog)._

_Hopefully this formula would work a little more fluidly than my other DA fic. I will change some things which happened in the game, depending on whether or not I prefer a new idea over old, just to let you know._

_Anyway, I really hope you enjoy reading the story, hopefully you'll leave some nice feedback, and stay tuned for more!_

_Oh, and whatever's Bioware's is Bioware's. Everything else belongs to yours truly._

* * *

**War of the Hounds.**

_**A Dragon Age fanfiction by mcdorfman.**_

**Chapter One: According to Plan.**

Cailan Theirin, king of Ferelden, loved tournaments. Ever since he was a boy, being reared on stories of great heroes vanquishing forces which threatened to extinguish all life, he was fascinated in anything to do with the art of sword and mace, lance and shield. He would often daydream about being at the head of an army, prepared to vanquish any and all during his country's darkest hour. He even wondered how he would have fared if Ferelden ever came under siege from the Darkspawn, during their dreaded blights when hordes of the vile creatures blanketed the very ground as far as the eye could see, and the shadow of an Archdemon became a sign of death soon to come.

He'd like to think the he would lead an army of Grey Wardens against them, and that he would fight bravely until he himself had slain the Archdemon which threatened his lands and people.

Fantasies, but of the kind which caused his heart to race with excitement.

Which was why he enjoyed tournaments so much; they were the closest thing he could get to such fantasies.

_Maker forgive me,_ he thought as he endured the carriage ride north to Highever, the lands of Teyrn Bryce Cousland, _but I think I'd rather enjoy going to war with someone, if Eamon would let me._

It was wrong of him, he knew, to wish for war for its own sake. His uncle, Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, often counselled him toward peace – having experienced war and all its horrors during the rebellion against Orlais, thirty years ago – he would say to the king that if he never saw another war, it'd be too soon. His father-in-law however would likely relish the idea of war so long as it was against his loathed enemies, the Empire of Orlais. Teyrn Loghain of Gwaren hated Orlais with as much passion as could rival dragonfire. Cailan once reckoned that if he ever decided to war with the Orlesians, Loghain would be the first to rally behind him.

The royal carriage rocked harder than it should have, rolling across the bumpier portions of the road north. Cailan sighed loudly as his blond head lightly brushed the ceiling. _I really must have them build a bigger carriage_, he grumbled inwardly, gently smoothing down his hair where his head made impact. _Or commission some new roads…now, there's an idea!_

As he vowed to remind himself of his new idea, Cailan tapped the open frame of his window, thinking of ways to busy himself on this long, boring journey to Highever and the Couslands. He disliked travelling almost as much as he loved watching tournaments, and to travel as far away as Castle Cousland, located on Ferelden's northern coast, close to the neighbouring city-states of the Free Marches… "But still," he began to tell himself, it wasn't as if he had anyone else to speak to, save his guards. "I suppose going north to Highever is better than going south to Gwaren. Or even _Redcliffe_! At least it's somewhat _warmer_ in the north…"

"Your majesty?" called out a knight that rode beside his window. His heavy armour scraped noisily against itself as he bent down. "Sire, did you say something?"

"Hmm…?" replied the king, bringing his attention to the knight. "Oh, sorry. Just thinking aloud. Carry on."

"Very good, sire," and with that the knight rode on, leaving the king to whistle some noteless tune in an attempt to alleviate his boredom.

He wished he brought a book with him, to read. Or maybe a travelling companion he could chat to as he endured the bumpy ride…even a dog. But alas, all he had were the dozen or so knights serving as his bodyguard, and they were more interested in protecting their king than chatting with him. Cailan would have preferred to bring his queen with him on the journey but she declined, deciding to remain in Denerim with her father, the Teyrn. Anora did not enjoy tournaments with the same zeal as he did; her interests lay more with statecraft and the governing of Ferelden.

Cailan supposed that it might have been for the best that she stayed in the country's capital. He wasn't as good at being a king than she was a queen. She was the politician, not he. _I'd rather think the whole country would revolt without my Anora as the queen._ He jested, but that might not have been far from the truth. As a king, he was popular with the Bannorn and the common folk, but he wasn't the strongest of politicians, nor the wisest, even with advisors like Eamon and Loghain and his wife. He preferred more interesting things to pass his time, like tournaments.

And then he had a most wonderful thought to pass his time. He would sit back and imagine who would attend Teyrn Cousland's tourney. He pictured noble knights such as Ser Cauthrien, who worked her way through the ranks to become Loghain's most trusted lieutenant. _Wait, no…I left her in Denerim, I believe,_ he thought, disappointment souring his new pastime. But maybe he could hope to see Ser Temmerly the Ox in action. Temmerly was a brute of a man, and an unpopular one at that, but none could deny he possessed the strength and size of the great beast that was his namesake. He'd like to see someone give that man a good thrashing.

Maybe he could hope to see good Ser Landry of Denerim attend. He was a true knight, devoted to the concepts of chivalry and honour, and duty to his lord and king. Landry was also one of the best duellists he had ever seen.

Other names and faces filled his head as he endured the ride. Names such as Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea, who was skilled with a bow, and maybe her brother, the Templar whose name had escaped him. Imin-something. Nathaniel Howe, who was another bowman but to hear his father tell it, young Nathaniel was none too shabby with a blade, either. He was apparently better suited to combat than his younger brother, Thomas, who was more interested in drinking, gambling, and whoring than picking up a sword or a lance.

And then he reminded himself of one who would most likely attend; Teyrn Cousland's youngest child, the Lady Elissa. The king had never met the young woman in person, but he was familiar with her reputation. She was a real spitfire, according to what his sources have informed. She was apparently a courageous young woman, headstrong, and skilled with a blade with thanks to an exiled Orlesian Chevalier as her teacher. To hear it told, this Elissa Cousland was apparently the reincarnation of Dame Aveline, the legendary first female Chevalier, or Moira the Rebel Queen - his own grandmother - who ignited a rebellion and fought to free a nation.

He was curious to see if the tales held up to the reality.

_Yes, I think I'd rather enjoy this tourney!_

The king felt his carriage come to an abrupt halt. "What in Andraste's name?" he muttered as he popped his head through the window to see what the delay was. He saw his knights move into position as a man moved forward to speak with a woman standing by a broken wagon that sat in the middle of the forest road.

"You there!" he called out the nearest knight taking position beside him, sword at the ready. "What's the delay?"

"Apologies, sire," the knight bowed. "But there's a woman whose wagon lost its rear wheels. She's stuck in the road."

"Well, be a good man and help the poor woman," the king commanded, wishing this delay to be as brief as possible. He wouldn't miss this tourney for the world.

"Yes, sire. But we-"

The knight was cut short when a crossbow bolt entered his skull through the heavy, armoured helmet he wore. Cailan's eyes widened as he watched the blood pour from the wound before the knight fell off his horse as a lifeless, armoured corpse.

"Bandits!" he heard another knight bellow to his men. "Form up! Protect the king!"

"Sire!" a man called out as he popped his head through the other window behind him. "Please remain in the carriage," he gently ordered him.

"Maker's breath, man, what's going on?!"

"Bandits are attacking, your-"

"Maker!" he scrambled back as the spearhead exited the knight's open mouth, pointing directly at him as if it were some grim, bloody finger. _Alright, remain calm!_ He had a dozen knights out there, ready to die defending their king against these brigands. He can afford to stay here, in relative safety.

That safety soon became an illusion as he saw the axe head break into his carriage through the corner of his eye.

"To the void with this!" he yelled as he pushed through the opposite door, exiting over the fallen knight's body. There were dozens of them, he saw, humans, elves, and dwarves all clad in the same dark uniform, fighting with his highly trained knights with more skill than he would expect from mere bandits.

But then again, bandits didn't wear uniforms.

He had to help his men. He had to lead them so they can fight off these enemies. He had to be a _king_.

Quickly, he grasped his fallen knight's greatsword and cleanly hacked off an elf's head as he approached. He deftly parried an oncoming axe blow, his martial training coming to the surface as he remembered the drills and manoeuvres his arms masters have taught. He swung the heavy sword, cutting a clean arc across as two more sought to end his life. They stepped back with the first swing, but foolishly moved forward once more as Cailan brought his sword about, slicing off the leg of one man while slicing a red line across the other's chest.

And suddenly, as he felled any who dared come for him, he understood. As the rush of battle filled him and his heart threatened to burst from his chest, he realised that he was in a battle. _An honest-to-Maker battle!_ he thought as he cleaved a dwarf in two. It thrilled him to know what it felt like to finally fight for real, rather than the mock battles in tournaments. As he dealt death, he marvelled at the feeling of blood on his hands, the way his enemy screamed for him to "Wait!" before he ended them.

Though he faced mortal men and women with a dozen knights and not the dread hordes of demons and darkspawn at the head of his mighty army, he nonetheless felt like a hero in the tales told to him as a boy.

"Crows!" he heard a voice cry out. "The king of Ferelden dies tonight!"

"_Antivan_ Crows?" he wondered to himself.

The infamous Crows of Antiva, a guild of assassins feared all across Thedas for the way they dealt death to their targets. Through their deadly reputation, the Crows practically ruled their homeland, and such was their reputation that no man would be foolish enough to invade the otherwise weak Antiva. It would be easy to take the country by force, but not so much when it came to keeping it Not even the Qunari heathens dared such a thing.

And they were here to claim his life.

Stabbing a woman in the chest and kicking her off his blade, Cailan turned to face the origin of the voice, only to realise it came from but a few feet of him. On the roof of his carriage stood an elf, dark skinned and blond haired, with a long, curving design tattooed on his cheek. The elf gave the king a wink and a friendly smile as he drew his blades, a longsword and dagger, as if he were the king's drinking buddy rather than an assassin out for his blood.

"Zevran Arainai, at your service," said the elf before he leapt in the air and landed behind the king in an acrobatic display. "And I must say it is an honour to kill you, Your Majesty!"

With keenly drilled reactions, the king quickly brought his greatsword up to deflect the assassin's blow. The elf was quicker still, though, his skill and his people's natural agility giving him a decent advantage against the greatsword-wielding king, as the assassin brought up his dagger and thrusted into Cailan's abdomen. Cailan cried in pain as he felt the warm wetness of his blood staining the assassin's blade, desperately shoving the elf back, away from him.

The elf obliged with a smile on his face, bringing two fingers to his lips, blowing out an ear-piercing whistle which caught the attention of his fellow Crows, who backed away from the surviving members of Cailan's guard.

"Ir al lado del Creador, mi amigo," said the elf in his native, Antivan tongue. The king watched him bow with an exaggerated flourish before running to follow his men into the trees, leaving Cailan more confused than he had ever been. He knew that the elven assassin had him, he knew it the second he felt the blade pierce his flesh. Why then, did the elf not finish him off? Cailan winced as he pressed down on his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. _What I wouldn't give for a mage with some healing magic, right now._

The wound felt strange to him, for some reason, beside the pain of blade meeting flesh, there was an added sensation of burning, a tingling which gave off heat. And all of a sudden, he started to feel butterflies in his stomach. _It's just the thrill of battle leaving me,_ he reasoned as he turned to see two of his men run towards him as fast as they could. He noticed that one of them had a rather nasty gash across his face that looked like it needed seeing to, quickly.

"Majesty!" said one of them, breathlessly. "Thank the Maker you are alright. Are you unharmed?"

Cailan grunted in discomfort when he turned and offered his side to the knight. "It's just a scratch," he waved off. "The coward ran before he cut too…too…"

"Sire!" cried out both knights as they watched their liege collapse to the muddy ground. The butterflies within Cailan grew into miniature dragons as his stomach churned and rolled with discomfort, until he threw up blood when one of the knights held him in his arms. "King Cailan, please hold on! We'll find a healer for you!"

Somehow, Cailan didn't think a healer would be any good to him. He felt weak, shivery, and feverish, as if he had come down with some unpleasant sudden illness. Chill crawled down his arms and legs and he found himself unable to breathe, his windpipe having grown several sized too small for his neck. The king's body convulsed violently in his knight's arms, and he couldn't hear the no doubt frantic screams of the knights, calling for anyone to help his liege.

Having a small rest felt like rather good idea to the king, right now.

* * *

Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, walked through the halls of the Royal Palace with a barely concealed spring in his step. He felt so pleased with himself that recent events have come to pass according to his design. Cailan was dead, having been brutally slaughtered by bandits or some such. The details didn't matter; he had the survivors quietly die in their sleep lest anyone hear any talk of the Crows he hired to do the deed.

To have the king killed at his most vulnerable was a masterstroke; here in Denerim, in the Royal Palace, Cailan was guarded by the best the King's Army had to offer. Here, garrisoned within was a small army numbering in the hundreds, of knights ready and willing to die for the king if harm ever threatened to come to him. But to strike when he was on the road, surrounded by a mere dozen of them? How supposed he should thank his dear old 'friend', the Teyrn of Highever, for inviting the king to his tournament.

At the thought of Bryce Cousland, Howe's mood briefly became that of disgust. He may act the close friend of the Teyrn to his face, but behind closed doors he felt nothing but contempt for the man. He and his family, so high and mighty, lording over lands which by ancient right belonged to Amaranthine, and to the Howes, all the while playing the decent and honourable man, more popular with the Bannorn than the king himself.

He cannot wait to see them all dead. _Bryce, his bitch wife Eleanor, Fergus and his brat, Elissa…_ Howe recited the names like some prayer of death; there was something about it which he savoured.

It might not have come to this, had Bryce agreed to join their families, wedding Fergus Cousland to his daughter, Delilah, instead of that Antivan whore he bedded. Highever and Amaranthine would have been one land, one teyrnir, and Howe would have been satisfied with only having the Teyrn killed, perfectly willing to spare the rest of the family, so long as they were…amenable. He even offered one of his sons to Bryce's mannish daughter, Elissa, in case his original plans could be salvaged. She was attractive enough, in a rough kind of way, and Thomas wouldn't have been too fussed about that, either way. But alas, it was not to be, the Cousland bitch was more interested in _playing _a man rather than pleasing one, as it should have been.

Perhaps it was for the best, Elissa was her father's daughter, after all.

He coughed, clearing his throat as he knocked on the chamber door, awaiting the call to enter. The door swung open and Howe was greeted by the sight of a giant of a woman, brown-haired and possessing eyes which seemed as if they can pierce into his heart and see the man for who he really was. She easily taller than he was, too, and she cut quite an imposing figure in her heavy armour and the beautifully forged Orlesian greatsword at her back.

He disliked this woman immensely.

"Arl Howe to see you, Your Grace," said Ser Cauthrien as she glared at the arl. Howe pretended to seem uncomfortable with her scrutiny, raising his chin and looking at her past his aquiline nose while he entertained the idea that he might even have _her _killed, were she not so formidable a warrior that her surviving the attack seemed plausible.

"Send him in," ordered a rough voice, with a commoner's accent, the voice of Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren and General of the King's Army. Cauthrien stepped aside, allowing the arl inside her lord's chambers while she never took her eyes off him. _Let her stare all she likes,_ he thought to himself, bowing before the figure before him, seated with his back turned. Howe bit his tongue, protocol dictated that a lord actually_ received_ his visitor, rather than barely acknowledge his presence. It was insulting, and were Loghain not so useful a puppet for his plans…

And so he'd rather keep quiet about the lack of respect shown to him as was his due.

"Your Grace," Howe began, looking down at the man who helped bring Ferelden out of Orlesian occupation, all those years ago. "I bring most distressing news: King Cailan is dead."

"Hmph!" replied the teyrn, drawing heavily from the goblet of wine he kept in his hand as he reviewed documents and reports. He was a busy man, after all. "And good riddance!"

Howe sighed inwardly. _The idiot couldn't be bothered to _even pretend _to feel sadness for his son-in-law's demise!_ But he supposed he had good cause to be open with his feelings. A week ago, a series of letters came to the teyrn's possession, letters meant for the king's eyes only, one of which addressed concerns about the queen's lack of fertility, advising Cailan to set her aside and seek out another bride. Others came as part of a correspondence between Cailan and the Orlesian Empress, Celene the First. They began innocently enough, diplomatic niceties between two heads of state, until they became more familiar and more subtle in their wording, proposing alliances of a more…personal nature.

Howe enjoyed watching this peasant's anger as he read the letters; that Arl Eamon proposed his nephew cast Anora aside like an old mare past her prime so Cailan could search for greener pastures. And to top it off, one of those so-called 'pastures' belonged to the ruler of Loghain's hated enemies.

"That cheating bastard!" he raged at him, that day. Howe thought it quite amusing; he thought Celene preferred the company of women, in particular some elf whose name escaped him, but rumour had it was the empress' spymistress. He found it utterly disgusting, personally, but the idea that Cailan would cheat on his wife with one of _those_ kinds of women…

He fought the urge to chuckle at the memory. But it did open the window for his manipulations of this upstart commoner. It was he who suggested to Loghain that he would arrange for the king to meet an untimely end, and that he was only working with the best interests of Ferelden at heart.

"Yes, Teyrn Loghain," he continued, feigning sadness for the benefit of all present. "It seemed that King Cailan found himself set upon by bandits." Loghain knew Howe's hand was behind this, but it helped to keep up appearances. "His guards fought bravely, but alas, failed to protect the king. Why, we only received word of the incident when the knights who survived told the tale with their dying breaths."

"I see," grumbled the Teyrn, still not facing him. "Arrange that all the knights' families receive their pay for the rest of the year, and for the next. They died protecting the king; they deserve to see their families taken care of."

"By your will, Your Grace," Howe bowed deeply. He'll do no such thing. He paused for a few moments, before he followed on with the other reason he was in the presence of this fool.

"You can go now," Loghain told him.

"Yes, Your Grace," replied the arl, before turning his gaze toward Cauthrien, who stood by the wall like a statue, ready to move at a moment's notice or a word from her lord. "But before I take my leave, may I have a moment of your time? In private, please."

He heard Loghain growl impatiently, and then watched him drink his wine. "Leave us," he ordered the giantess, who bowed obediently and left his chambers without a word. "You have only a moment, Howe," he warned. "I'm busy."

"This won't take long," Howe assured him, taking a step forward. "I have dealt with the king, Loghain," he continued in a hushed tone. "With his death, you can name yourself as Regent to Queen Anora. In consideration to this service, perhaps you could find it within yourself to grant me a small favour?"

Loghain turned his head to finally look at the man stood behind him, glaring at him with gritted teeth. "I was not aware we were on a first name basis…Rendon," he spat.

Howe backed away a step, holding his hands out in submission. "Forgive me; I spoke out of turn, Your Grace. But…in regards to my favour?"

"Speak."

"I have reason to believe that the Teyrn of Highever conspires against the crown," he explained. It was a lie, of course. Bryce Cousland was as ardent a royalist as he was an honourable and just man. He was also powerful and popular with the banns who swore allegiance to him, and would have most likely been named King of Ferelden himself, had Cailan's father, Maric, not stepped forward to take the crown himself.

"And this is the same Teyrn of Highever who is your one and only friend?" scoffed Loghain, turning his back to Howe once more.

"The one and the same, Your Grace," he answered with false sorrow. "Bryce is my dearest friend, and it pains me to say this, but…you know how…_friendly _Bryce is with the Orlesians. He even has a Chevalier training his _daughter_, if you believe it!"

Everyone knew how friendly he was with Ferelden's former occupiers. Bryce was the kind of man who liked to make friends of his enemies, who believed that peace was the way and not war, no matter how many battles he won during the rebellion. But the idea of _any _Fereldan getting into bed with Orlais did not sit well with Loghain. Despite that, and despite the Cousland's current relations with the western empire, he knew that the Howe family was once even _friendlier_ with the Orlesians during the occupation. Were he Loghain, Howe would have taken that into consideration and called him a hypocrite for these accusations, while demanding proof that Cousland was conspiring against his countrymen.

Proof that he was willing to fabricate.

"You have proof, I gather?"

_How predictable._ But at least he didn't call him a hypocrite. "Of course, Your Grace," he answered. "One of Bryce's servants came to me with warnings of secret meetings he overheard, meetings with several high-ranking Orlesian noblemen in darkened rooms, conspiring to install him as the King of Ferelden. Once the crown sits on his head, I have no doubt my friend would sell Fereldan back to Orlais and we will_ all _be under Celene's thumb by then."

"And where is this witness?"

"I have him safely hidden away in my manor, here in Denerim," he answered with a false smile. He had no such witness, servant from Highever or otherwise, but it was easy enough to pluck some penniless elf from the street and bribing him to say whatever he wanted. It was easier still to kill the elf once his usefulness had ended, to prevent him from becoming a loose end.

"Alright, send him to me at once," the teyrn commanded. "And your favour?"

Howe bowed with false respect for this idiot who would hand Highever over to him on a platter. "I intend to march on Castle Cousland within the month, Your Grace," he began. "But I do not have the forces required to take the keep from the traitors, at least not without giving them enough warning to prepare their defences. I'd like to avoid a prolonged siege against the castle, so if it pleases Your Grace, I hoped you could provide me with some extra men?"

Howe didn't need to see Loghain's face to know he was thinking about it. The man was a General, a soldier; he understood the needs and musts of warfare, especially in taking a well-defended castle housing an army of formidable soldiers. While Castle Cousland was no Redcliffe, Fort Drakon, or Vigil's Keep, it was still nonetheless a formidable fortress, and would take a lot of spilled blood to take it, hundreds of lives, if not thousands.

The arl heard Loghain make a low sound in his throat. "Bring me this witness, Howe," he said. "If he convinces me of Cousland's guilt, you will have your men."

Arl Rendon Howe struggled with all his might not to smile. Everything was going according to plan.

* * *

_Another Author's Note Dammit!: I suck at Spanish, but I thought that having good ol' Zev speak a little 'Antivan' might be good, so Google Translate was pretty much my friend when I wrote that part. If the translation is totally wrong, I meant for him to say: "Go to the Maker's side, my friend." So you know. Hoped you enjoyed Chapter One, and I hope you'll stay tuned. Please feel free to leave feedback! :)_


	2. The Rogue from Denerim

**Chapter Two: The Rogue from Denerim.**

The elves of Denerim did not have much to call their own. Theirs were not the palaces of wealthy shemlen lords, nor did they feast on rich, sweet meats or drink the finest of wines and ales. Theirs were the slums of the alienage, and what they could afford to pay or steal. They were the poorest of all the poor, unwanted and unwelcome souls who live behind a great wall which separated them from the rest of the city. There were those who were allowed to work at taverns, or noble's homes, but come the night they were forced back into their ghetto. Those caught outside the alienage at night were often mistaken for sneak-thieves or pickpockets, and some elves truly_ were_.

Elves such as Kallian Tabris.

Kallian – or Kali to her friends – concentrated on the task at hand, crouched in the shadows of her latest mark's home in Denerim's Market District, some Antivan merchant named Ignacio. She carefully manipulated the lock of the large, heavy chest she was attempting to break into, without much success. _Come on, you tricky bastard!_ She thought, keeping an ear out for the mark or anyone else inside the house that may call the guard or pose a problem some other way. She was usually quite skilled with lockpicking, but during her career as a thief she realised that shems with good locks on their doors and chests_ usually_ had something valuable contained within.

Kali twisted the small, thin pieces of metal in her hands, working on the final tumbler. The tip of her tongue poked out of her thin mouth, brushing against the scarf she kept wrapped around her face so no one would recognise her features. She was careful not to bite down as her slender hands succeeded in their task. _I got it!_ Slowly, carefully, Kallian lifted the large chest she had spent so much precious time to break into, hoping that whatever was inside was worth it, she spent far too much time in this house to begin with. The secret to a successful burglary was stealth and speed; making too much noise or remaining inside a mark's home increased the chances of getting caught red handed. Kali made it a rule to get in and out quickly and quietly, take nothing that can be traced to her, and only linger if the prize was worth the extra time.

She had just broken that rule.

_Andraste's great flaming ass, there's nothing here! _Kali couldn't believe that the lock that gave her so much trouble protected a chest containing junk. Piles of papers lay within the large chest, documents written in some foreign tongue Kali could not understand. After rummaging through the chest and checking for hidden compartments, Kallian decided this job was a bust when she found nothing of value. She rose to her feet, and then proceeded to make her way back into the streets of Denerim, and back to the safety of the alienage. She took only a few steps before she saw her path halted by a very much awake and angry Antivan merchant wielding a broad-bladed dagger made of valuable silverite.

"Cuchillo de orejas puta!" the heavy-set Antivan growled. "Try and rob _me_, will you?!" he continued in the King's Tongue before he swung his blade with more skill than Kali expected from a stocky merchant like Ignacio. He wasn't that much better - at least compared to her own skills with daggers – but she knew a professional knifeman when she saw one trying to kill her, no matter how good he was or was not.

Kali dodged the man's overhead swing, wishing she brought her own daggers with her. But then she knew if she did that then what was stopping her from killing this man, and dealing with guardsmen looking for a killer in the alienage was more trouble than it was worth. Every time there's a dead body in Denerim, they_ always_ came to the alienage first, even when the criminals weren't elves.

She rolled to one side and grabbed the first thing she saw, an ornamental copper plate carved with marigolds. Holding it in front of her, she used it as a makeshift shield to block Ignacio's blows, wincing as she held against the force of the attacks. _I need to get out of here!_ Which was easier said than done when her path was blocked by a man who was bigger than her. She needed to take him out, somehow. Thinking on her feet, Kallian swung the plate like a hammer, batting away the dagger and leaving her opponent open for further attack. Dropping her makeshift weapon, she moved to one side and grabbed Ignacio's knife hand by the wrist, elbowing the Antivan in the face before twisting his arm, hard.

Ignacio gritted his teeth as he was forced to let go of his weapon, and Kali turned and drove a knee into his gut, knocking the wind out of him slightly before he recovered and grabbed the elf by the neck.

"Nice try, elven whore," growled the Antivan as he squeezed the life out of her. Kali's rolled inside her skull as she scratched and clawed at him like an angry cat, to no avail. He was too strong to force her release, and so she decided to hit him where it hurt, bringing up her foot for a sharp kick to his groin. Ignacio sucked in a breath, eyes widening as he let go of the elf. Kallian in turn punched him in the face for good measure, followed by a spin kick as she turned and used the open chest as an assist. The Antivan fell like a heavy sack of potatoes, hitting his head on the discarded copper plate as he went down.

Kallian checked to see if he was still breathing, and thankfully for her he was. Alive, he was more likely not to involve the guards – who'd want to admit they were taken down by an elf half his size? - but dead meant a whole lot of trouble, and not just for her.

"Nice try, shem bastard," she spat with a ragged breath, grasping her neck and feeling the bruises he left upon her flesh. "You're lucky you're still alive." After giving him a sharp kick to his ribs, she decided that leaving as quickly as possible was the best idea right now, but not before her eyes moved to the silverite dagger lying on the floor. It was worth at least a few sovereigns. With the money she could make by selling it, Kali could feed her family for the rest of the year, at least. _Longer if I leave out Soris_, she joked inwardly_._ Despite her better judgment, she bent down and retrieved the valuable weapon. _Maybe K can fence it for me,_ she reasoned. _Melt it down, take out the jewels…surely it can't be traced back to me. What could possibly go wrong?_

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me," said Kallian as she heard K's fence revealed the amount of money she would receive for her job. It was far less than what she expected, only a measly fifty-silvers. She knew exactly how much the dagger was truly worth, and more often than not K was a fair man to deal with, whether he dealt with humans, elves…even Qunari. It was why she often came to him for freelance work or to sell off what she stole. She didn't know his real name – she didn't _need _to – and in all the years she's worked with K, she thought it odd that he would vastly undersell the weapon's worth.

"I went through a lot of trouble to just get_ this_ much!" she complained, fighting the urge to reach up underneath the scarf she wore to hide the bruises on her neck, marks where the Antivan merchant tried to strangle her. She didn't want her father to worry, or Shianni, or even Soris, her two cousins.

"It's _hot_, Kallian," K explained, the older man taking the dagger from his fence's hands. "You have no idea how hot it is, right now. See this?" K showed her the small image of a mask made of feathers carved underneath the dagger's pommel. "This is a_ Crow's_ blade, elf. I'm doing you a favour even by talking to you, right now. Did he see your face?"

Kallian's eyes widened a little. _Was I really stupid enough to roll over a place belonging to an Antivan Crow?!_ Before she berated herself even further, Kallian spoke. "Smiths forge fake Crow daggers all the time, K," she ventured, hoping he may believe her. "It's like Orlesians making crap they claim belonged to that woman knight of theirs." While it was true that unscrupulous weapons makers often forge weapons and claim they once belonged to Antivan Crows or whoever, Kallian didn't believe for a moment that Ignacio the Antivan merchant was simply that. As bad as he was at his knifework compared to her, he was still a damn sight better at it than the regular shem.

"Smiths don't make them with silverite," he pointed out. "If I had to guess from the work put into this, you just robbed one of the higher ranking Crows. Did he see your face?" he asked her again.

"No," she answered, sensing the way K's henchmen shifted and reached for their weapons, taking position around her. "It was dark and my face was concealed," Kallian explained, gesturing to the scarf. She was attractive, even by the standards of her people. Kallian was short, yet slender of frame, possessing delicate features and mocha-coloured skin, a legacy of her mother, Adaia. She had her father's eyes, as well as his black hair which she kept long.

K relaxed, as did his men who leaned back against the surrounding wall, glaring at the elf. "Good," he said. "Look, I like you, Kallian. You're a good little thief and you always bring me some good merchandise. But you screwed up here, with this," he raised the dagger to make his point. "You stole probably the one thing that could be traced, and if the Crows find you, your arse is finished in so many horrible ways."

"So why not melt it down and sell the jewels?"

"I'll have to, and that means cost of labour," he replied gruffly. "And that means coin out of my pocket."

"And that means coin out of mine," she finished bitterly. "I get it."

"Fifty silvers," he offered her.

"Can't you make it a sovereign?" she begged, clasping her hands together and giving him the puppy dog eyes. "I _need _the money, K!"

"And I'd like to sleep soundly tonight without worrying about Crows coming to my house and slitting my throat," K retorted, and then he sighed. "Alright, alright…eighty silvers, and that's because you're cute when you beg. But not a single bit more!"

* * *

_Well, that was totally worth it!_ thought Kallian bitterly as she walked through the elven alienage, her footsteps visible on the muddy, unkempt roads. She held her reward tightly in her arms, eighty silver coins which rattled inside the small box she kept them in. She knew that only the desperate of her neighbours would ever dream of jumping not just a fellow elf, but one who could beat them half to death with their own shoes, but she couldn't help but feel a little paranoid when she carried this much money with her.

_Maybe I'll buy a nice dinner for everyone,_ she thought as she passed a group of elves drinking cheap, watered-down ale in the middle of the road. _A good roast ham, maybe, _she suggested, hopping over a passed-out man that stank of urine._ Or a duck. And a bottle of West Hill Brandy, if I can manage to keep Shianni from hogging it all._

Eighty silvers was not the small fortune she was hoping for, the kind that fed her family for months to come, but at least she could treat them to something nice with what she had. Maker knew that elves had it rough. But wasn't that a blessing in disguise? As hard as their lives were, they were not exactly unhappy. As poor as they were, they still had homes, which was more than what _some _shems had. And theirs was a close-knit community. Here, they looked out for each other. Here, they danced and sang and made merry, just as the shemlen did, but Kallian believed that what little they had just made them appreciate it even more, far more than the humans did, anyway. They had everything, but appreciated nothing.

"Cousin!" he heard a voice call out, bright and feminine. It belonged to Shianni, her cousin and closest friend, who bounded after Kallian as she made her way home. Kali turned to face her, and she judged from the way she moved that her beloved cousin had gotten into the ale earlier in the day than usual. Shianni always did drink like a fish. "Cousin, I've been looking for you," said Shianni, giving her cousin a hug made awkward by the cheap drink that was a perk of the job of being a barmaid at the Drunken Mabari tavern on the other side of the alienage, past the vhenadahl.

"Shianni," replied Kallian, pulling away from her cousin's hug. "Listen, I really need to go home, right now," she told her, nodding down at the box in her arms. Shianni nodded knowingly. She knew that her cousin was a thief by trade, and as far as she was concerned, her stealing from shems was fine by her.

"Good!" she told Kali, taking an arm in hers and moving to her side as they continued walking home. "I have wonderful news, cousin," she declared with a smile.

"It's free booze day?" suggested Kali, earning her a playful thump in the belly.

"Very funny," grumbled Shianni, knowing a crack at her drinking when she hears it. It wasn't as if she needed a reason to get drunk. "But anyway, the news…"

"Go on, cousin," prompted the other elf. "I'm melting with anticipation."

"You'll love this…you and Soris are getting _married_!"

The news stopped Kallian dead in her tracks. _Married?_ Kali asked herself, not quite believing her ears. _Did she just say I'm getting married? To _Soris_?! Andraste's ass… Maker, please tell me she's joking. _Her inner monologue continued for several moments as she stood frozen, staring blankly at her cousin in the middle of the alienage street, ignorant of everything else around her. She was getting married? Why did she have to get married, and to _Soris_ of all people? She wasn't the type to have a_ relationship_, let alone that of husband and wife. And of all the people in the alienage – in all of _Thedas_ – why is she marrying her cousin? Shianni's smile wavered somewhat, wondering if the news wasn't as welcome as she'd hoped.

"Congratulations?" she ventured, helpfully. "I hear Nelaros is quite the catch."

_Oh,_ she thought, felling utterly relieved she wasn't going to marry her cousin. She didn't think she'd last as far as the wedding night without killing herself. And then she froze. _Who the hell is Nelaros?_

"Excuse me, cousin," she said to Shianni, pulling away from her and storming off to the shack she and her father called home. Shianni followed her as quickly as she could, but could barely keep up the pace her cousin was moving. She looked irate.

"Now, Kali," she managed, "don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Kallian threw the door to her home wide open, storming inside as she glared at her father Cyrion, who sat at the table enjoying some stew with Soris. She slammed the box of coins onto the old, wooden surface of the rickety table. "Married?!" she scathed, fixing her father with a fiery glare which if it could, would burn down the entire alienage, starting with him. "I'm getting _married_?!"

"Uh…" began Soris, excusing himself from the table. "M-maybe I should be somewhere else, Uncle Cyrion."

Kallian shifted her glare to him, and the brown haired young elf shifted uncomfortable as he lowered himself back to his seat. "Never mind," he squeaked, wishing to be anywhere but here when his cousin went off on one of her infamous rages.

"Kali," said Cyrion, wiping his mouth before rising from his own seat. "I'd hoped to tell you myself," he glared at Shianni, who shrugged and then shooed away the nosy neighbours who thought they'd see a show.

"I won't do it," said Kallian sternly, crossing her arms like a child having a tantrum. "I'll go find the _Dalish_ before I get married!" she threatened, knowing that even if she did somehow find the Dalish elves, she'd hate being with them, with their smug sense of superiority over the city elves – whom they call 'flat ears' – and having to move throughout Thedas like nomads, and no doubt she'd get into more trouble with them than she ever would here. And not only that, but Kallian was a city girl, through and through. It would take nothing less than a life or death situation to make her leave Denerim and her family.

"We all know you won't do that," replied her father, knowing his daughter well. "You'd come crawling back to the city within a week."

"I'm still not getting married, Papa."

"You are and you will, daughter," Cyrion will have no arguments from her. "Nelaros is a good lad, Kali. He's strong, handsome, and he's a hard worker. He's a blacksmith from Highever."

"I don't care if he's the Orlesian Emperor and wore a shiny hat. I'm still not marrying him." Kallian grabbed the nearest bowl of stew and chucked it at her father, who evaded the flying object before it shattered against the wall.

"Maker's breath, Kallian Tabris," Cyrion sighed unhappily, none too pleased that his daughter had just wasted a good meal on him. "You're just like your mother, too stubborn for your own good!"

"At least Mama wouldn't marry me off to some stranger!" Kallian slammed her fist against the table, causing the box of coins to rattle. "I'm not some horse to be ridden whenever someone liked!"

"You'd rather do the riding, yourself," muttered Soris as he stared into the fireplace, still wishing to leave his irate cousin to her tantrums.

"You say something, Soris?" Shianni asked her cousin as Kallian glared at him. Soris backed away as much as he could while still seated. To him, the only thing worse than one woman's fury, was two. And he'd rather not tempt such a thing.

"No, nothing!" he squeaked.

"Hey, mind your own business!" Shianni called out to more of their nosy neighbours before turning back to her cousin. "Kali, what's the matter with you?" she asked. "Is it girls? Do you like girls?"

Kallian turned her gaze back to Shianni, widening at such a question. "What? No!" she protested to her, open-mouthed. "Maker, no! Of course, I don't like girls. I just don't want to be with anyone, right now, _especially_ for the rest of my life!"

"Please, Kallian," Cyrion pleaded with his daughter, throwing his hands over her shoulders. "Do it for me? I know your mother would have liked to have seen you settle down with someone." The elder Tabris felt a wave of sadness at the memory of his beloved late wife, Adaia. She was quite the wild child in her younger years, getting into fights, adventuring, and she even came close to being recruited into the Grey Wardens, once upon a time. But then she met and fell in love with a simple servant in Bann Rodolf's Denerim estate – an estate she was there to rob – and made Cyrion Tabris the luckiest elf in Ferelden. It was she who taught Kallian the skills she used to relieve Denerim's rich of some of their wealth. It was through her that Kallian learned swordfighting, knives, and the ways of the rogue.

And it broke Cyrion's heart when he learned of her death at the hands of the humans who guarded the estate she was there to rob. It was a mistake of her to be there, but it was the humans made who made a bigger one when they took her life.

He didn't want Kallian to follow the same path as her mother. He wanted her to settle down into a life that didn't involve breaking into people's homes so that she could put food on the table. He wanted her to give him grandchildren, to live a life of normalcy. But more importantly, he didn't want Kallian to share in Adaia's fate, and have her broken body be found in some gutter.

Hence the arranged marriage.

"I promise you, Kali," he began. "Nelaros will make you happy. Maker knows there's far too little of that to go around."

"Be happy, cousin," piped in Soris. "Elder Valendrian chose my own bride. Valora, her name is. Maker, the way the Elder spoke about her...she sounded like she was some dying mouse! _I'd _marry Nelaros if I could!"

"Fine, he's yours," replied Kallian, looking at him.

"No!" he changed his mind.

"Didn't think so."

"Can_ I_ have him, then?" supplied Shianni. "He sounds so dreamy!"

"No!" and then Kali froze, realising just what it was she had said. _Did I just say she can't have my fiancé? Why did I say that?! _"I mean, yeah…sure. Whatever – oh, sod it. _Fine!_ I'll marry the poor bastard. But I'd better not regret this!"

And the Cyrion's face lit up like the sun, taking his daughter into his arms and holding her tightly. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, being married. It didn't hurt her mother, after all. _And who knows,_ Kali thought to herself, _maybe he really is as dreamy as Shianni says. If I'm to be hitched against my will, he'd better be good looking, for his sake! And he'd better be at least tolerable to be around. And good in bed…no, make that _great _in bed._

"Alright," said Kallian finally. "When's the big day?"

"Next week," her father answered.

"_What_?!" screeched his daughter.

"Oh, here we go again," groaned Soris, earning himself another glare from his cousins.

* * *

_Author's Note: I was kind of debating with myself as to which of the main party I should introduce first, and then I chose Kallian purely because I wanted to write that whole 'marrying your cousin' gag. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the chapter. Stay tuned for the next one! Oh, and Google Translate is my friend again with Ignacio's little insult. Basically, he called her a "Knife-eared bitch." Good times._


	3. The Mage from Kirkwall

_Author's Note: Just to let you know, this chapter contains a little **MAN ON WOMAN SMUT** in the middle of the chapter. If it's not your thing, then please feel free to skip that part. This was a pretty hard chapter to start writing, hence my cheating a little and using the Mage Origin intro as a template. I know, bad writer! Bad! I was debating with myself whether to describe Daylen as a Fereldan (because he lived there) or as a Free Marcher (because that's where he's from, if being Kirkwall nobility was any indication). I went with Free Marcher pretty much because the Hawke family are considered as such, despite living in Ferelden their entire lives. The same with Leliana, who considers herself a Fereldan, yet was raised in Orlais._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to let me know what you think of it, and stay tuned for next chapter, where you'll be introduced to the third member of the party, the Lady Elissa Cousland. Goodtiemz!_

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Mage from Kirkwall.**

On a cliff overlooking the dark waters of Lake Calenhad, stands the tower fortress of Kinloch Hold. It is a legacy of the ancient Avvar barbarians, a fortress once thought impregnable until the Tevinter Imperium came, and stretched forth their empire across the whole of Thedas. The tower was home to the Circle of Magi in Ferelden, who were dedicated to the protection of mages from those without the gift of magic – and from themselves – as the Templar Order who guards these mages was dedicated to protecting the people from mages.

Kinloch Hold is the one place in Ferelden, where a mage could study their art among their own kind, without fear of being killed by those who did not understand their power. Here, within the high stone walls of the tower, the Circle practices its magic and trains apprentices in the proper use of their powers, and how to defend themselves from the Fade-creatures that hungered for their souls and craved their flesh to wear in the mundane world, Abominations who would wreak havoc amongst the innocent.

In light of this, Kinloch Hold is as much a prison as a refuge, where the ever vigilant Templars of the Chantry watch over all mages, constantly alert for any sign of corruption and abomination.

This gilded cage was the only world that Daylen Amell has known for fifteen, long years. Ever since he first shown the signs of the magic which coursed through his veins, Daylen has been a member of the Circle. Ever since the Templars took him from his mother's arms, the same as his brothers and sisters that came after him, Daylen learned the dangers of the Fade, the power of the elements, of spirit magic, of the forces of creation and entropy.

As prisons went, the Free Marcher could have done a lot worse to be sent to stay for the rest of his life. He misses the things he had in his old life, though. He missed his old home in Kirkwall, the family estate in Hightown. He missed his mother, Revka, and his siblings. He missed his grandfather, Fausten, and his two uncles, Damion and Aristide. He still missed his family dearly, even though he could barely remember them.

But it was Irving who softened the pain during those first few years, the stern but kindly old man who served as First Enchanter of the Circle. Irving saw that special spark within Daylen; that he would grow into a most talented mage. He took him in, made him his own apprentice and taught him how to command the forces at his fingertips, even raised him like the son he never had.

Daylen could see the pride shining in his teacher's eyes right now.

"Ah, if it isn't our new brother in the Circle!" the old man told Greagoir, Knight Commander of the Templars who guard Kinloch Hold. Greagoir was an older man clad in heavy plate armour emblazoned with the flaming sword of Andraste. "The man whose Harrowing was the quickest and cleanest I have ever seen."

Daylen remembered the Harrowing he had taken. It certainly lived up to its name, as he was thrown into the Fade and told to sink or swim. It was a test, to see if a mage was powerful enough to resist the demons that dwell within that strange place where all mages drew their power. He was made to fight and conquer a spirit of rage, outwit a demon of sloth…and refuse temptation.

He thought the test over when he defeated the rage demon, but when the spirit of pride offered him power unimaginable if he only…let him in, Daylen knew that this was the true test that all mages must take. It offered him the world, power enough to rival a god, power enough to become a god. He refused the offers made by this Fade-creature. Killing the spirit of rage was not the true test of the Harrowing. The true test was being able to look a demon in the eye, and say "No."

He remembered the pride demon's parting words.

"Maybe they are right about you," it told him. "Simple killing is a warrior's job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions…careless trust…_pride_. Keep your wits about you, mage. For true tests never end."

The demon still chilled his very bones.

"Well, Irving, I see you are obviously busy," Greagoir said, glancing at the apprentice. "We shall discuss the…other matter, later."

"Of course, Greagoir."

And with that, the Templar took his leave of the two mages. As they were left alone in Irving's office, surrounded by the magical artefacts and ancient tomes and scrolls which filled the enormous shelves within, Irving walked over to his apprentice and took him in his arms. "I am so proud of you, child," he said. Daylen wrapped his own arms around the man who had been like a father to him since he first came here, to the Circle.

"I had a great teacher, First Enchanter," said the Free Marcher, the northern accent of his native Kirkwall still strong despite the years he spent apart from the Free Marches city-state. He was tall and strong, larger than the frail wizard before him. Pale-skinned, and possessing the features that the men in his family all possessed, the strong jaw and piercing, blue eyes, as well as the full head of black hair. Ruggedly handsome, he heard the ladies in this tower describe him, and was such that he had no shortage of companionship.

Especially that of Neria's.

"Bah!" Irving scoffed as he pulled away from his favourite pupil. "All I did was refine that raw talent of yours, Daylen. Any other teacher could have done the same. But enough of flattery, you and I have some unfinished business."

Daylen watched his teacher move back to his desk, a great wooden behemoth covered in papers but for a wooden staff placed atop of it. Irving grasped the staff with both hands, lifting it with as much reverence and ceremony as he would a powerful arcane relic. Turning back to his pupil, Irving offered the staff to Daylen. "Apprentice Daylen Amell," he said, completely within his office as First Enchanter of the Fereldan Circle of Magi. "Son of Revka, daughter of Fausten. You have succeeded in your Harrowing. I offer you congratulations, brother, and I hereby induct you as a full mage of the Circle. Take your staff."

Daylen did so, the power he felt within the wood, it felt as if the staff was made for him and him alone. He held it one hand as Irving retrieved a ring, and offered this to the Free Marcher mage.

"Take this ring," commanded the First Enchanter as his pupil obeyed and took the ring from his hand. It was forged from silver and infused with lyrium – the physical manifestation of magic – and stamped with the insignia of the Circle of Magi. "May it be a reminder that you are a true member of the Circle. Your Harrowing is behind you, Daylen. You were a brilliant apprentice, and I have no doubt you shall become a greater mage."

"Thank you, First Enchanter," the Free Marcher smiled, feeling very much proud of himself.

"Now, take this time to rest, child. Or study in the library. The day is yours."

* * *

"Maker's breath, woman…" breathed Daylen as he held the elven woman's small hips tightly as she straddled him, riding him for all he was worth. He sucked his breath through his teeth when he felt Neria's fingernails dig into the flesh of his chest. Neria liked being on top, she liked to be a little rough, a little forceful as she rolled her hips around him. Daylen heard her moans in his ears, pleased with himself that he could elicit such a reaction from the usually stoic elven woman.

Neria groaned as the pleasure she felt fell upon her in waves growing in intensity, driving her all the harder as she sought the release she craved. Daylen brought a hand from her hips to cup a breast, barely large enough to fill it. He enjoyed the little whimper he got when he played with her nipple, squeezing it tightly before he sat up from the bed while he was still inside her, taking her into a deep kiss as he thrusted deeply.

Neria gasped. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him to her tightly, enjoying the way he filled her completely.

Daylen growled low in his throat before he took her and switched positions. He was now behind her, hands grasping her hips tightly as he thrusted, with the occasional swat on her rear. Sweat poured from both their bodies, and their hearts beat in unison, rapidly. Pressure was building inside Daylen. His release was imminent. "I'm about to…" he shuddered.

"No don't!" gasped Neria, arching her back. "I'm close…just…keep going!"

He concentrated as he took her, trying to gain some self-control so that his elven lover could experience her own pleasure. If nothing else, he was a considerate lover. But despite this, he found it difficult to control himself. "Just…a little…"

His entire being shook and stiffened, the pressure within him was too much to contain, and it exploded in a wave of release as he finished inside of Neria, filling her with his seed. He collapsed bonelessly on top of her, gasping for air. "Did you…?" he asked breathlessly, happy that she nodded the affirmative. He kissed the spot between her shoulder blades and climbed off of her, lying back on the bed. He felt a warm weight fall on top of him, Neria deciding to cuddle a little before she had to return to her own chambers.

"I'm happy for you," she told him, referring to his recent success of the Harrowing and his subsequent induction into the Circle proper.

Daylen kissed her deeply in response, tiredly stroking her long, auburn hair. Neria Surana was a simple village girl, once. Before her talent manifested when she was a girl, Neria once called the village of Lothering home, a tiny little place so small it didn't even have its own alienage. But now, she was only a small step away from undergoing her own Harrowing. Daylen had faith she would succeed, Neria was just as talented as he was, if not more.

She came to the Circle roughly the same time he did, and theirs became a fast friendship, despite how…cold she acted toward other people. What they had wasn't exactly love, at least not in that way that associated with the act of love. Theirs was simply a close friendship, coupled with a very healthy helping of lust. But Daylen did have to admit to himself that if there ever_ was_ a woman he could fall in love with, it would be Neria. And even if he _did _love her, it wasn't as if the Chantry would allow him to marry her, or give them permission to keep any children they had together. But then, Daylen thanked the Maker there were precautions for that kind of thing. He thought he'd be a terrible father.

Even so, Neria wasn't as fond of their jail as he was. There were times when she would crave the outside world so much she could taste it. Daylen sometimes thought that if the Templars wouldn't eventually find her, she would have escaped long ago and probably taken him with her. Maybe find some quiet place, somewhere in the great vastness of Thedas and just…be with one another.

But still…one could dream.

"It'll be your turn soon enough, Neri," he told her, closing his eyes for a little while and just savoured the warmth his elven lover radiated. "When you pass your test…maybe we can ask the First Enchanter if we could share chambers."

"Would that be wise?" she asked, tightening her hold on him. "If the Chantry finds out how close we are, they might try and separate us."

Daylen frowned, growling low in his throat at the thought of being separated from the elf. While mages weren't forbidden from acting out their carnal needs, they were at least discouraged by the Chantry from being together as close as Daylen and Neria were, lest they inadvertently produce a child with magical talent despite how many precautions were taken. To prevent such from happening, the Chantry separated the mages in question, sending one to a different Circle, somewhere far away.

"We already live in the same bloody tower, Daylen," she told him. "Why do we have to share the same room?"

"I don't know. I…forget it. You're right, Neri. Bad idea." For some reason, he sounded disappointed.

Neria pulled herself from his arms before kissing him, lightly caressing his chest before moving her hand lower to his stomach, and lower still. "What are you doing?" he asked as she planted kissed down his chest, straddling his shins.

"What?" she asked him as she took him in her hand. "Did you think I was finished with you?"

The Free Marcher sucked in a deep lungful of breath as Neria took him in her mouth, humming in delight as she went to work on him. He gently placed a hand on the top on her head. "Maker's breath, woman…" he whispered.

One of these days, she was going to kill him. But he would die a happy man.

* * *

The door to Daylen's new chambers opened, allowing a neatly dressed Neria to exit. Other than the way she glowed in the hallways of Kinloch Hold, she didn't have a hair or piece of clothing out of place. Daylen thought she looked as prim and proper as she did before their time together. He smiled as she gave him a little smirk and a wink before she turned to make her way to her own chambers. Daylen breathed a pleased sigh as he closed his chamber door, clad only in his birthday suit. He could still smell the elf on him, a pleasant musk of her passion and the perfume she wore. He quite enjoyed it, actually.

He was about to go back to bed when he suddenly heard a knock on his door. _Who the bloody hell could this be?_ he thought, silently hoping that Neria was back for more. When he opened his door, he felt somewhat disappointed that it was not his elven lover, but rather Jowan, another of his closest friends, though not as close as to sleep with him. At all.

"Daylen, I…" began Jowan before he paused to see his friend in all his naked, sweaty glory. Daylen followed Jowan's eyes downward, slightly embarrassed he didn't cover up before opening, still hoping it was Neria who'd come calling. But Daylen would never show his embarrassment to his friend, instead he gave Jowan a big grin and placed his hands against his hips.

"See something you like, Jowan, old buddy?" he asked him.

Jowan blinked rapidly before he shook his head. "I…w-what?!" he sputtered, and the Free Marcher enjoyed watching the fiery blush emerge on his friend's cheeks. "No! I don't…oh, Andraste's arse. Let me in! And put on some bloody clothes!"

Daylen obliged, cutting his poor friend some slack as Jowan invited himself in, all the while averting his eyes and wishing to the Maker he could unsee what he had just seen.

"So, Jowan," began Daylen, now sporting some dark trousers and nothing else. "What brings you to by humble chamber?"

Jowan became quiet, remembering the reason he came to his newly minted mage friend before he saw Daylen in a completely different light. "I need to talk to you," he said. "It's urgent."

"Go on."

"It's…well it's the Harrowing!" Jowan blurted out. Daylen could figure out the rest of the conversation on his own. Before his initiation into the Circle as a full mage, Jowan approached him, asking him questions about the test, what was involved, what he had to do. Daylen was forbidden to answer, but his friend pleaded with him, fearing that they would never let him have his own test. Jowan had been with the Circle far longer than Daylen had, and yet he was still an apprentice. He supposed that made sense, as much as he loathed mentioning it, Jowan's talent with magic was…sub-par, to say the least. Jowan was afraid that they weren't going to bother with him, unless to have the Templars kill him or perform the Rite of Tranquillity.

Jowan's fears were justified, for the Rite robbed the mage of all emotion – of their very _dreams_ – to prevent any Fade-creatures from using their bodies as a gateway into their world. Once the Rite was performed, all that remained was a soulless husk of a man, shuffling about as a mindless servitor of the Circle. Jowan didn't want that at all.

"I need your help, Daylen," he pleaded with his friend. "You're the only one I could turn to!"

"What's going on?" Daylen frowned, worried that his friend might be in some kind of trouble.

"Not here," Jowan replied, not wanting any passing Templars to overhear what he had to say. "Get dressed and come to the chapel. I'll explain everything, I promise."

* * *

"We should be safe here from the Templars," said Jowan as Daylen joined him in the chapel, roughly ten minutes later, now fully dressed in his mage's robes.

"You…realise there's a priestess standing beside you," Daylen pointed out, nodding toward the attractive – if somewhat chubby – young redhead in a Chantry robe, standing beside his friend and watching them with bright, green eyes. Daylen had seen her before, but did not recall her name. She had been with the Circle's Chantry for only a few months, and he rarely frequented the chapel if he could get away with it.

"She's the reason I've asked you to come here," Jowan explained, taking one of the priestess' hands in his own, squeezing lovingly as he looked in her eyes before regarding his friend. "A few months ago, I told you that I…met a girl." Jowan continued his explanation when he saw Daylen nod. He did recall hearing his friend tell him about a girl he met, but he never met her until now. He was beginning to doubt her existence, actually.

"This is Lily," Jowan introduced.

_Ah, so that's her name! _Daylen looked upon the young priestess with wide eyes. _Jowan, you sly dog!_ he thought before he moved forward to shake his friend's hand. "Bravo, Jowan, on capturing such a beauty!" he congratulated him, before leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Now might not be the time to mention how you blushed when you saw me naked," he teased, giving his friend a huge grin.

"Very funny," Jowan grumbled when Daylen pulled away.

"And you, Lily," Daylen continued, taking Lily's other hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. And may I be the first to offer you my condolences."

"Thank you, ser," Lily blushed. Daylen thought the way she brushed a lock of her fiery red hair quite charming. "Jowan told me quite a lot about you," she told him.

"Believe only the dirty parts," the Free Marcher mage smiled, ever the charmer. He turned his attention to his lucky friend. "Well, Jowan," he began, nearly businesslike, now. "You didn't bring me here to chat about love."

Jowan stood silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Remember when I told you I think they didn't want to give me my Harrowing?" he finally asked him, feeling Lily squeeze his hand gently.

Daylen nodded.

"I know why…" Daylen could hear the fear in his friend's voice, making him frown in worry. "They're going to make me Tranquil!" Jowan told him. "They'll take everything that I am from me! My love for Lily…my dreams, hopes, fears… All gone."

"Maker," Daylen breathed. Tranquillity was among the most repugnant things one could do to a man, let alone a mage. "That's terrible, Jowan. I'm sorry."

"They'll extinguish my humanity," his friend continued, panicked but for the support he had from his Lily. "I'll be a husk…breathing and existing, but not truly living!"

"How did you find out about this?" Daylen asked.

"I saw the document on Greagoir's table," supplied the chubby priestess. "It authorised the Rite on Jowan…and Irving had signed it."

_Maker, no…_ Daylen couldn't believe what he was hearing. Irving did all he could to support those under his charge. He even fought against the Rite of Tranquillity when some of the apprentices struggled with their teachings. But there was one instance Daylen knew of when the First Enchanter signed off on it without any second chances or extra support; young apprentice named Irene, who was dabbling in blood magic, the most vile and insidious form of power there was.

He sees her in the store room, on occasion, taking inventory with a blank expression on her once beautiful face, marred by the Chantry icon branded on her forehead.

But was Jowan so weak minded that even _Irving _decided that he was as lost a cause as any and planned to make him Tranquil? No wonder his friend was so frightened.

"It's not safe here for me, anymore, Daylen," Jowan added. "I need to escape, I need to destroy my phylactery. Without it, the Templars can't track me down!" He pulled away from Lily and approached Daylen. "We need your help, my friend. Lily and I can't do this on our own!"

"Alright, calm down, Jowan," Daylen shushed him before checking around the tower chapel for any eavesdroppers or anyone who thought a little late-night prayer was in order. Maker knew that Keili was a frequent visitor of the Chantry. "What is it you need me to do?"

"Give us your word you will help us," demanded Lily. "And we will tell you what we intend."

Daylen nodded wordlessly to the Chantry priestess.

"Thank you," Lily breathed a sigh, letting out the breath she kept in anticipation before giving their new saviour a hug. "We'll never forget this."

"Okay," replied Daylen when she pulled away. "Tell me your plan, and make it quick," he looked around once more, content that no one else was here with them. "I don't want the Templars finding out what we intend."

"I can get us into the repository," the redheaded priestess supplied, "but there's a problem. There are two locks on the phylactery chamber door."

"A locked door," chuckled the Free Marcher. "Best quit while we're ahead."

"It's not just a locked door," she continued, slightly miffed at the joke. "The lock is unlike any I have seen. The First Enchanter and Knight Commander each hold a key, but there is power enough here to level all of Ferelden. What's a door to a mage?"

"What if it's a magical door?" Daylen pointed out, crossing his arms.

"I've seen a rod of fire burn through a big, heavy lock, once," supplied Jowan helpfully. "You could get one from the store room, but Owain doesn't release such things to apprentices."

"And this is where I come in, right?" asked Daylen. "Alright, tomorrow I'll go to the store room and get a rod of fire. We'll get your phylactery then."

The things I do for friends, he thought to himself, wondering how incredibly stupid he must be, breaking the rules of such magnitude as this, and only a day into his being a full mage of the Circle. If they got caught, the possibility of being made Tranquil may be the _least _of their problems. They may even be sent to the Aeonar – the mage's prison – where the worst offenders, apostates, and maleficarum are sent. A place where the veil between worlds was so thin – so spiritually damaged – that the Aeonar seemed more a hell on earth than a prison.

But it was a rare thing that one would risk all for a friend in need.

Jowan took the Free Marcher in his arms, crying tears of gratitude. "Thank you, Daylen!" he sobbed. "We'll never forget this. You're the best!"

_Maker, please don't make me regret doing this!_


	4. The Warrior from Highever

**Chapter Four: The Warrior from Highever.**

In some lands throughout Thedas, there are those who rule in the belief that theirs was a divine right to rule, as gifted to them by the Maker. In the lands of Ferelden, however, it is believed that those who rule must _earn_ their place above the people. Those who hold power over the lives of the common folk are not suffered greatly, as the Orlesians had learned in their eighty years of occupying the country.

Stranger still to Ferelden's neighbours was that the common folk did not fawn and scramble at the feet of their betters. It is true that the nobility are treated with deference, but this had more to do with the assumption of martial ability than social status or the divine right to rule. In Ferelden, the primary purpose of the nobles was not only to govern the lands under their rule but to protect the people who served them. It was – quite literally – their job. Any noble found to do a poor job often lost their patronage, finding their former prestige given to another – more worthy – candidate.

It took a particular kind of person to be exceptional at their job, and even moreso a particular kind of family to make that job a calling.

It was the Cousland family who held dominion across the northern coast of Ferelden and of the bannorns within. Highever was the seat of their power, which they ruled from the castle which bore their name. The teyrnir – as was Gwaren in the south – was in some ways a nation within a nation, and the teyrn who ruled was their king. The Couslands had been teyrns and teyrnas of their lands for generations, dating back to the less civilised times before there even was a Ferelden, before the days of Calenhad the Uniter, where the barely hospitable lands of southeastern Thedas consisted of mighty barbarian tribes, teyrnirs and arlings, and independent bannorns who constantly warred with one another. Since the days that werewolves threatened the northern lands, and the Couslands of those black times rallied the banns to their flag and drove them away with fire and steel, thus cementing their seat as the lords of Highever.

But the Cousland family could have achieved their greatness only by earning the respect of the people they ruled over, through their reputations for fairness, justice, and temperance, but also through their willingness to lead their men into battle, to fight and possibly die alongside them, rather than behind them in relative safety.

Bryce Cousland was such a man, as was those who came before him. He proved that time and time again during the Orlesian occupation and the subsequent rebellion, and was one of the finest rulers Highever had ever seen during the course of its existence. And – as the Bannorn hoped he'd accept – the possibility the teyrn would ascend to the throne was great, such was the respect and love he commanded from both the nobility and the common folk. But Bryce Cousland was loyal to the crown, and to the Theirin family, as had his family been since the days of Calenhad and Bryce's ancestor, Elithea.

Even so, some still whispered that he might have been a better king than Cailan, or even his father, King Maric. They even whispered the possibility of a Cousland king in the future, if Cailan died without heirs.

Bryce prayed that day would never happen. He never wanted to be a king, being content to rule over Highever, instead.

But today was not the day for possibilities and politics. Today was a time of joy and entertainment, and of competition and victory.

Today was a day to see his darling girl knock some grown men on their arses.

"The next bout shall commence immediately!" called the herald responsible for calling the competitors to the grounds. "I call Ser Jory of Redcliffe to the grounds!" The crowds gathered to witness the competition cheered as they watched the tall Redcliffe knight take to the battleground, attended to by squires. His greatsword gleamed in the afternoon light. Teyrn Cousland applauded the good knight, as was proper for a man of his station, but Ser Jory was not the one he wished to see perform.

"His opponent!" the herald bellowed. "I give you the Lady Elissa of Highever!"

The crowds cheered all the harder for their native lady, their chosen champion, the daughter of the teyrn. The Lady Elissa moved forward with purpose, patiently awaiting her own men to hand her the sword and shield with which she had trained since she was a girl. She beat her shield rhythmically to the cheers of her fans. "_Highever!_" the teyrn heard his daughter bellow to them, sword raised, forever the people's beloved scion if their screams were any indication.

"Elissa!" he called to his daughter, clapping his applause with even more vigour than he had her opponent. "Kick his arse, pup!" he yelled, his noble bearing diminished momentarily, leaving only a father's desire to see his favourite child succeed.

The others seated near him clapped their applause, also. "I hear a great many things about your daughter's talent in the martial arts, Your Grace," said the Duke Prosper de Montfort, his Orlesian accent obvious all within earshot. The duke came to Highever with his son to create good relations between these turnips in Ferelden and Orlais. He had hoped that King Cailan would be here already, so that he may convey his empress' affection for the king, but he never turned up. Personally, he felt the teyrn should be insulted that his turnip king had not bothered to attend his tournament – he had arranged it in his honour, after all – and with no excuse as to why.

But still, Fereldan turnip he may still be, Teyrn Cousland always was something of a friend to Orlais, since the end of the rebellion. And he was a teyrn – a king in all but name. Duke Prosper could at least strengthen relations with a man as powerful as he was. And this tourney was a good excuse for him to enjoy watching some bloodshed. It wasn't the same as hunting the wyverns at his beloved Chateau Haine…but it was a start.

"Indeed?" asked the teyrn, his eyes glued to the bout. His daughter just deflected a blow from Jory's greatsword, knocking her to one knee, but she was not done yet. She pushed forward, using her shield as a battering ram to force the Redcliffe knight back. Her oncoming assault was relentless, swinging her sword and hammering at Ser Jory's defences, the only thing truly stopping her being the Redcliffe knight's size advantage.

"Oui, they speak of her all the way from Jader to Val Royeaux!" replied the duke. "They say her skill with a blade rival's that of Dame Aveline herself!"

"And they say her beauty is a grand thing to behold," added Cecil de Montfort, diplomatically. "Surely, she takes after her mother in that regard, non?"

"Careful, ser," warned the teyrn's wife, Eleanor, good naturedly. "My husband is the jealous type."

"Duly noted, Madame," the duke's son smiled, knowing such flirting would not go anywhere, even if they decided to continue such. His tastes ran along the more…masculine.

"Even so, Your Grace," said the teyrn's other guest for the evening, Duncan of the Grey Wardens. "The Lady Elissa's skill has so far been very impressive."

Ser Jory swung his blade in a great horizontal arc, forcing his opponent to roll against the attack and take a defensive position, holding her shield to withstand the oncoming blows.

"She wields her weapon as if she were born to it," the Grey Warden noted, stroking his beard in thought. He came to Highever for a purpose; before King Maric came into his throne, the Wardens were exiled from Ferelden, warned never to return under pain of death. After the exile was lifted, it was Duncan's responsibility to rebuild their strength here in this country, seeking suitable candidates for the Wardens. He came to this tournament to recruit as many as he could, in preparation if a Blight ever came upon Thedas once more.

"I…daresay she may even be good enough for the Grey Wardens," he ventured carefully.

The teyrn and teyrna turned their heads away from their daughter long enough to glare at the Grey Warden, as if he had insulted them, somehow. "Honour though that might be, ser," Teyrn Bryce began, "this is our daughter you speak of."

"We have not enough children to gladly send them off to fight darkspawn in some dark, dwarven pit," added Teyrna Eleanor, a mother's instinct to protect her child taking over. She knew what the duties of a Grey Warden entailed, and while it was a great honour to be counted among their number, Elissa was _her _daughter, and she will _not_ spend her life in darkness.

Duncan bowed in apology. "Forgive me," he said. "As much as we are desperate to regain our strength here in Ferelden, I have no intention of forcing the issue." Even though technically, he could. By agreement with all nations within Thedas, the Grey Wardens possessed the Rite of Conscription, a rule which - when invoked - allowed the Grey Wardens to forcibly recruit men and women into their ranks. The Rite was a great tool to have, in theory, but not so much if the intended recruit was a member of high-ranking nobility, or even royalty.

"But still…" added Duncan's fellow Warden, Alistair. "Your daughter is good! I mean, really good. I mean probably-defeat-an-entire-horde-of-darkspawn-by-herself, good! She really _should_ join us!"

Duncan simply groaned in reply, and the glares of Elissa's parents shifted to the younger blond Warden.

"Or…I could be wrong… She's a terrible swordswoman! Not worth it at all…a _cat _would be a better candidate! A cat in a _dress_!" their glared intensified to the point where Alistair would rather face down an ogre than remain here. "I'm sorry," he apologised sheepishly, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. "Forget I said anything."

"Excellent idea," replied Eleanor tersely.

"Maker's breath, Alistair…" he whispered to himself, hoping that the nobles present didn't decide to put _him_ in a dress. Or a box. Or both. "You really know how to put your foot in it, don't you?"

Duncan locked his gaze to the young Warden, glaring before he turned his attention back to their hosts. "He's young," he explained, apology flowing through his voice.

The teyrn and teyrna turned to see their daughter in action. Elissa parried the Redcliffe knight's blow with her blade, though Ser Jory twisted his greatsword around and Elissa found herself losing her grip on her sword. She was disarmed, and all she had now was her shield to protect her. Any sane man would yield the bout to the opponent. But the teyrn knew his daughter. Elissa – while sane – didn't like to lose. He watched her duck the knight's overhead swing, one made to otherwise take her head off. Now, worry warred with the teyrn's confidence in her, and he could see that his wife felt the same way as they watched Elissa. She should have deflected the blow with her shield, rather than evade. She should have moved _with _the force, rather than move against it.

"What is she doing?" he wondered.

Her strategy soon became apparent when she moved in close to Jory, his field of attack useless now that she was within it. They watched her grasp his sword arm by the wrist with one hand, and the she turned her back to him, bashing her shield against the heavy helmet protecting his face. They watched his struggle to free himself from the onslaught, only to find himself fallen to the ground and disarmed.

"I yield!" Jory cried out when he saw his greatsword in the Lady Elissa's hands, pointing directly at him.

The crowds cheered on their lady as she savoured in her victory, as did her parents and their guests. "Bravo!" cried Duke Prosper as he clapped his applause. "Magnifique! Lubrifiant qu'ils dissent est vrai!" he turned to his hosts, glee shining in his eyes. "Your Grace, Madame, your daughter is a true Chevalier!" he gushed to them.

"Thank you, my lord," replied the teyrna, worry still etched on her face. Eleanor was once quite the battle maiden, herself, but not even she went to such lengths to achieve victory. She hoped her darling girl was alright after such a battle. She still held hopes that Elissa would find a husband, after all. It was difficult, however, to find her a husband when she insists on tearing around like a wild Chasind. "But to take such a heavy risk…"

"Yes, a heavy risk," replied the duke, smiling. "But the prize…"

"It's unfair that only Ferelden should see such talent!" added Cyril, applauding as he had an idea. "Father, we should take her back to Val Royeaux! She can show our swordsmen a thing or two on how it's done."

Prosper nodded in agreement. "Oui!" he said turning back to the teyrn. "I daresay the court in Orlais would love to see her talent! There is a swordsmanship academy in Val Royeaux, administered by the Caron family. The Lady Elissa would be a welcome addition there. She may even become a _master_ in due time!"

"I must agree, Your Grace," added Duncan. "The Caron Academy is renowned for training master swordsmen, and it is a great honour to even _attend_, let alone graduate. Many Warden-Commanders have once been students there, including Commander Leonie Caron of Val Royeaux, a close friend to the Empress. If _we _cannot have her, then maybe they could sharpen her talent."

"You see?" said Prosper, gesturing to the elder Warden. "Even the esteemed Grey Wardens can vouch for the school! Please, you must say yes."

Teyrn Bryce sat there, flustered by the honour offered to his daughter. He would loathe seeing his daughter leave the teyrnir, but if he wanted to, he would not stop her. And who knew, maybe his Elissa would thrive in Orlais. It might be interesting to see how the Orlesians would react to seeing a turnip among their ranks.

"I'll ask her, my lord," Bryce agreed. "But she may not accept the honour. There's no telling my fierce girl _anything_, I'm afraid."

"Magnifique, Your Grace," replied the duke. "It's a shame your king was not here to witness such talent, non?"

Bryce nodded, thinking it odd that the king did not attend his tournament. Cailan should have been here days ago, he lived for this kind of thing, and he already missed the jousting and archery competitions. If the king was too ill to attend then surely he would have had a messenger come to Highever and explain his absence. He had half a mind to send riders to Denerim to see what delayed the king. He hoped he was alright.

"Well, I suppose the king's loss is your gain, Duke Prosper," said Teyrn Bryce, raising his glass to the Orlesian emissary.

* * *

Elissa revelled in the cheers and applause of the squires and fellow competitors as she entered the main tent, allowing her squires to take her sword and shield. "Thank you," she told the two boys, grateful that she could rest now, at least for a few moments. "And thank you all!" she called out to the others, shaking Ser Jory's hand as he joined her inside. "A good match, ser," she told him, ever the gracious fighter. "Well fought."

"And to you, my lady," Ser Jory bowed. "Maybe I'll be luckier, next time."

"Until then!" she smiled through her heavy helmet before she pulled it off her head. To say she possessed a beauty to launch a thousand ships would be inaccurate, yet Elissa was still held in high regard as being attractive, if in a rough, boyish way, unadorned with the heavy make-up the other noble ladies wore. She was no Orlesian flower, and in truth Elissa didn't mind as much that she wasn't exactly what she'd consider a beautiful woman. It might have been hard to be taken as seriously as a warrior if she had to concern herself with bruises and such. But the oval face, the sharp blue eyes and short head of golden hair that was unique to her family _did_ of course turn more than a few heads, nonetheless. From _both _genders.

Not as if she would ever take advantage of such attention.

Elissa breathed a happy sigh, glad her head was out of that big metal barrel she called a helmet. She tossed it to a squire before dunking her head into the nearest barrel of cold water she could find, relishing in the way it felt against her skin, lingering in the cool waters to wash away the sweat on her brow, wishing to remain there forever but for the need to breathe. She whipped her head back from the waters, droplets arcing in the air from the motion, and she found herself attended to by one of her squires, carrying a towel and a wineskin.

Elissa took both with gratitude. "Thank you," she told the boy, drinking a mouthful of wine from the skin and patting herself down dry, before handing both back to him. Elissa intended to enjoy this short time of rest for all it was worth, taking a seat on the nearest stool and taking off her gloves. Loosening the straps and her breastplate followed, revealing her sweat-soaked coat she wore underneath. As much as she loved to fight, the only thing she disliked was how much the thick padding and heavy plate armour cooked her inside.

With plate off as well as padding, she sat there, bare-chested but for the linen wrapped around her chest to bind her breasts, and sporting some impressive bruises. Were she any other person, Elissa probably would have called over one of the mages lent from the Circle to perform healing duties for the competitors. But why bother? They were only bruises, and the Lady Cousland could see that others needed their attention more than she.

_Especially Ser Bertram,_ she thought, wincing with sympathy when she saw the incident between him and his opponent, Ser Temmerly the Ox. _Poor bastard may even lose the eye._

She reminded herself to watch the brute's mace when she's back on the grounds. Ser Temmerly was her next opponent, now. Her final opponent.

"You took a heavy risk, jeune," she heard a rough voice speak, the heavy Orlesian accent filling her ears. "Your lord father would not forgive me if you got hurt out there."

She turned her head to look at Ser Michel du Mont-de-glace, Orlesian Chevalier in exile and the arms master of Castle Cousland. He was an older man, as old as her father, with long, greying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, with warm, brown eyes hidden underneath his perpetual frown. Michel fought during the rebellion all those years ago, on the side of Orlais. He went back to the empire once peace reigned, however, after having an affair with the son of his patron, his return to his homeland was short-lived. But he found a home with his old enemies, a patron he could serve honourably in Teyrn Cousland, and a willing and eager student in the Chevalier arts in his daughter.

He would never admit it, but of all the Fereldan turnips he trained over the decades, the Lady Cousland was his finest student. She never complained with his harsh teachings, the way he made her run around the castle in full plate to increase her endurance, the way he made her walk up stairs carrying pails of water. She never complained about the bruises she obtained every day during their sparring sessions, and even better, she listened and learned. Had she been an Orlesian, he had no doubt she would have been a Chevalier of great renown in the future.

"He was wide open, Michel," Elissa reasoned. "I saw opportunity and I took it. And besides, you keep telling me," she continued while effecting a false Orlesian accent, "'A woman will always be at a disadvantage against a man of equal skill, jeune. He will be bigger than you, and stronger. To defeat him you must use those advantages against him.'" Elissa gave him a smile, and then mimicked his frown. "'Now…drop and give me _fifty_, turnip!'"

Michel crossed his big, beefy arms and chuckled. "It was _twenty_, my lady," he corrected.

"Felt like fifty," Elissa shifted her shoulders, as if to emphasise how uncomfortable she felt after that particular training session.

"Just you and me, now," said Ser Temmerly as he approached the pair, sneering at Elissa as if she were something he had just scraped off his boot, his voice dripped with menace. He was a large man, larger still than the Chevalier glaring at him. Elissa disliked the knight from Amaranthine immensely. Temmerly was a bully, who liked to prey on the weak, and he conducted himself more like a violent criminal than any true knight, and she'd like nothing more than to show him the error of his ways. She hated bullies.

"Don't think I'll go easy on you, Cousland bitch. When we're out there, you're just another piece of meat for me to chew on."

"Hold your tongue, fool!" growled Michel. "You speak to your better!"

"Hold_ yours_, you old ponce," snarled the knight from Amaranthine, the stench of sweat and blood still lingering over his armour. "Or you'll be next."

"Michel, please," Elissa said, moving in between the two men and turning to Temmerly. "Ser Temmerly," she began, staring down the larger knight without an ounce of fear. She's faced down bullies before, and they're all the same. "While your knightly conduct leaves something to be desired, I will forgive your lack of manners. However, when we are on the grounds, I will happily knock you on your arse, and it would be deservedly so." She would have left it at that, but… "Oh, and one more thing," she continued, looking Temmerly over. "You might need to find a larger suit of armour, ser. That must be a tight fit, you being so large."

Ser Temmerly chuckled evilly, crossing his arms and looming over the smaller woman. "'Tight fit,'" he repeated, sneering. "Funny…your lady mother told me just how_ large_ I was last night."

"As did your lady sister the night before, I imagine," she replied, smiling sweetly while Michel chuckled. "Now begone, will you? Like a good little dog. We'll meet again, soon enough."

And with that, she dismissed him, no longer deigning to give him any more thought than she would the flies which hover over dog mess. Temmerly growled at them before leaving them to prepare for the next bout. Elissa was going to enjoy defeating him, secretly glad he was no man of Highever. Suddenly, she found herself on the dusty ground, being covered in slobbery dog kisses.

"Dogmeat!" she cried, trying to get the enormous Mabari hound off of her. The huge, mastiff-like dog bounded off of her, dancing and barking at his mistress as she pulled herself from the ground. Elissa laughed at the hound's antics, rubbing his block-like head while he barked happily at her.

"Auntie!" she turned just in time to catch his little nephew, Oren, as he leapt in her arms.

"Did you see me, little man?" she asked him, squeezing her nephew tightly as they were joined by her brother Fergus, and his beautiful wife, Oriana. Ser Michel used this time to excuse himself from the small gathering.

"We certainly did, sister," the elder Cousland smiled as he gave her a hug. "You gave that Redcliffe snot a good trashing!"

"Can you teach me how to use a sward, Auntie?" asked the boy as he laughed and wriggled under Elissa's tickling fingers.

"It's 'sword', Oren," she replied, turning her gaze toward the beautiful Antivan woman who made her brother such a lucky man. Motherhood seemed to have agreed with her, having lost none of the beauty that drawn both brother and sister alike. Elissa liked looking at her, those delicate features, that shapely body, the way she wore her brown hair. Elissa fought against the blush that rose every time she looked at her, trying her best to be the honourable sister she should be. Fergus was there first, after all.

"Best ask your mother," she said.

"I'm thinking 'no'," replied the Antivan woman, grinning at her energetic son. Elissa liked hearing her voice, too, how her natural, rolling accent hid itself behind the rougher tones of a Fereldan.

"But mummy!"

"You're too young, Oren," said his father. "I was twice your age when I picked up my first sword, as was your aunt. We'll talk after a few years, how about that?"

"But-!"

"Come, Oren," said Elissa, putting her nephew back on the ground. "Go play with Dogmeat and let the grown-ups talk a while."

Dogmeat barked happily as the boy ran around him, and Oren giggled as they made their away from the knights and other competitors inside the massive tent. "He looks up to you, so much," Oriana beamed at her sister-in-law. "You're like a hero in his eyes, and you're so good with him. Why is it you're not a mother yet?"

"I need someone to be a father for that to work out," Elissa quipped, as if that would ever happen. "I don't think motherhood would suit me as much as it does you, Ori."

"Besides," added Fergus, sniggering like he couldn't help it. "Rumour has it my little sister here prefers a more delicate touch."

"Fergus!" both Cousland women exclaimed, aghast that he would blurt out such a thing, even if it was true, despite Elissa's lack of experience.

"Alright, changing the subject," Fergus backed away under the glares of both women. "When is it you have to go back to the grounds?" he asked Elissa.

"When I'm called," replied the younger Cousland, remembering to get ready and calling for her squires to help prepare her. "Truth be told, I'm looking forward to giving that Temmerly a good seeing to with my blade."

"I wish you didn't treat it so lightly, sister," Oriana breathed, genuinely worried for her sister-in-law's safety. In her homeland, the idea of women fighting was unthinkable, and she wasn't as enamoured with bloodshed as most people were. "I was scared for you when it seemed Ser Jory was going to win."

"You worry too much, Ori," Elissa scoffed, taking a knee so her squires will have an easier time redressing her. "You must remember: I'm the best swordswoman in Ferelden!"

"Cockiness doesn't become you, Elissa," replied Oriana. "And Ser Temmerly is an animal, compared to Jory. Maker knows what he'd do to you if he gets his hands on you."

"Doesn't make it any less true, wife," Fergus told her as he watched Elissa's squires strap her into her breastplate. "Elissa will win. I know it. Don't worry about it so much, dear."

"Besides, that Amaranthine jackass needs to get his hands on me, first," said Elissa with a wink to her Antivan sister-in-law, and the object of her unrequited affection.

"Attention please!" called the herald. "The next bout is about to begin! Ser Temmerly of Amaranthine versus Lady Elissa of Highever!"

"I suppose that's my signal to be ready," she said, shifting in her armoured breastplate as the squires strapped her in tightly. She thanked the two boys and stood, holding out her shield arm towards Oriana. "Your favour, my lady?" she asked chivalrously, invoking the custom of knights wearing a lady's favour into battle.

Oriana gave her a charming little giggle as she stripped a ribbon from her hair, tying the Orlesian silk around Elissa's forearm, as Fergus watched.

"Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd say my little sister was sweet on you, Oriana," the elder Cousland said, prompting an annoyed look from both women. Any other man would be jealous, but he knew his sister. Even if she did find his wife as beautiful as he did, she would never dishonour him like that, or herself. He just hoped that there was someone who could make her as happy as he was, man or woman.

"Oh, Fergus," replied Elissa as the crowd outside booed their lungs out as Ser Temmerly exited the tent. Despite being the elder of the two siblings, in addition to being a husband and father, Fergus was such a brat sometimes. "You say the nicest things." She donned her helmet and grasped her sword while one of the squires fitted her shield against her arm.

"Wish me luck?" she asked them both, but looking into Oriana's beautiful eyes.

"Always, sis."

"Good luck, dear Elissa."

"And his opponent…" the herald called out as she took position by the tent's entrance. "The Lady Elissa of Highever!"

* * *

_Author's Note: I would have included the Elissa/Temmerly fight in this chapter, but it was already becoming too long. Next chapter, eh? I kind of planned it to be an Elissa chapter, anyway. As you've noticed, Google Translate has been used again to make up for my lack of skill in French. Basically, what Prosper said in his native Orlesian was "Wonderful! What they say is true!" while Ser Michel's pet name for Elissa is something like "young one"._

_Anyway, hope you enjoyed reading it! Stay tuned for the next chapter and please feel free to leave feedback!_


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